When The Night Dies. Poem by MIRAK Montiel

'When the Night Dies'

The bed is not mine—
just another slab in a stranger's tomb.
This mind? It wanders without walls,
a cracked cathedral echoing voices
that never belonged to me.

Sleep is a myth told to children.
Now, the night is only
a curtain of smoke,
a noose of thought.
My breath tastes like ash,
and every silence screams.

I stopped explaining my life
when I realized I was never living it—
only dragging it behind me
like a corpse I couldn't bury.
This is fate, not freedom.
I cradle it like a loaded gun.

The voices say, "It's time."
I almost agree.
But when I close my eyes,
she's there—
my mother,
reaching through the dark like God once did.
But love is a hallucination now,
a flicker in a heart
that forgot how to beat for anything but pain.

No one knows what I carry.
No one knocks on the locked door of this mind.
Still, I scribble my soul in shadows,
hoping someone, someday,
will find these notes—
fragments of a fallen prophet
too empty to rise,
too full to live.

I can't even name five souls
who would lift my casket.
Maybe that's justice.
Maybe that's poetry.

These are my last rites,
written in the margins of a ruined life.
And when the night dies—
not with stars,
but with silence—
please remember:
I was here.
I was broken.
And I was real.